


snow is falling, all around us

by acrossthesky_instars



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Colleague- AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, It's all fluff, Snowed In, and i'm a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrossthesky_instars/pseuds/acrossthesky_instars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's christmas, and clarke and bellamy are the only two with work ethics that leave them snowed into the office overnight. </p>
<p>title from merry christmas everyone-slade (a banger fyi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	snow is falling, all around us

**Author's Note:**

> it starts off bad and it never really gets better, i'm awful and i'm sorry   
> uni is killing me and mistakes in everything should be expected

The snow is falling, children are playing, and Clarke is _not_ having fun.

It’s the last Friday before Christmas, the winter wonderland outside is doing all sorts of weird things to the lights in the empty office and Bellamy Blake will not stop kicking the living daylights out of their printer, which apparently seems to have given up and gone home at two o’clock, just like all the other sane people in their office.

Clarke has never wanted to strangle someone with a set of Christmas lights more.

She’s considering marching over to kick _him_ but trying desperately to rein it in, not really wanting to prolong her homecoming. Her and Bellamy’s arguments have been known to go on for hours- days if you counted that time he gave her the silent treatment for nearly two weeks because she _accidentally_ threw his favourite mug at the wall when he made a sarcastic comment about her coffee. In fact, Clarke’s pretty sure that the ‘Don’t Get Your Tinsel in a Tangle’ poster above the coffee machine is for their sakes- probably because of that very occasion, now she thinks about it- especially because of the pointed eyeballing Jasper from Technical had given them both while he was putting it up.

It had worked kind of ironically though; Clarke was fairly sure they were both united in how much they hated the damn thing, Christmas puns and all.

Bellamy gives the printer another shake, and Clarke ignores his muttered profanities and her mildly perverse fear for the thin fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. Her office runs directly parallel to his, all glass walls and ‘my door is always open’ clichés, and she likes to glare at him randomly to cheer herself up, despite this historically backfiring. A couple of times, too rushed to change after the gym, Bellamy had turned up at the office in his running gear all pink-cheeked and sweaty (looking not unlike how he generally looked riled up by Clarke) and she had to remind herself – way more forcefully than she’d like to admit- that her _offhand_ glances were because he was disgusting and not disgustingly handsome.

He tended to smirk all the same.

His phone must’ve gone off, its chime drowned out by the loud, angry music Clarke is playing (anything with a jingle or a bell in it had been blacklisted), because he tugs it out of his back pocket and swipes at the screen with his thumb, his frown easing like it’d been rubbed at too. He smiles, abandoning the printer- and Clarke- when he yanks a beanie that Clarke knows belongs to Miller and _not_ him over his head and striding out of the door. The silence is more on the deafening scale than the peaceful atmosphere Clarke had been longing for.

He doesn’t even say goodbye when he leaves. _What a prick._

She tries to work for a little (a very little) longer, but the canting Christmas tree is starting to lean more and more ominously towards her now she’s alone and she doesn’t feel much like adding herself to the list of stupid festive casualties that her mother likes to rhapsodise on about at Christmas dinner. _Not even cracker jokes can rescue_ that _party_ , Clarke thinks bitterly, and presses the shutdown button on her computer a little harder than necessary.

_Netflix_ , she thinks reassuringly, _Netflix and Baileys_. Then: _Oh my God, I’m an old lady_.

‘All you need now are the cats and the slightly decaying smell and you’re there,’ Bellamy says, his voice startling her into tangling her scarf and realising she was talking to herself. Out loud.

_I’m a_ crazy _old lady_.

‘Jesus, Blake,’ she glares at him savagely, replacing the Christmas lights with her scarf in her strangulation fantasies. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’

He leans against the door, ultra-casual. ‘Not that it doesn’t sound like a _great_ party, Princess, but I wouldn’t rush.’

She studiously ignores that, and the stupid, infantile nickname. There were days when she thought she hated her father’s legacy in this company almost as much as he did, especially when Bellamy’s thinly-veiled nepotism accusations came out to play.

Days _we fought for last time_ , she reminds herself _. Think of the Baileys._

‘Princess,’ his voice is mild, almost gentle. ‘We’re snowed in.’

‘What?’ she all but shouts, her voice cracking.

‘You know,’ he widens his eyes at her, nodding his head encouragingly like he’s talking to a small child and gesturing with his gloved hands around his waist. ‘Lots of snow, big blizzard. The doors won’t open, and even if they did, there’s no way our cars would make it five feet.’

She growls at him, too tired to rein in her crazy lady. ‘Tell me this is just another one of your hilarious jokes, Blake.’

He smirks, unrepentant. ‘Sorry, Princess.’

She slumps back down into her chair, and drops her head onto the table with a loud _klunk_. ‘This is like a nightmare.’

‘Clarke,’ Bellamy says flatly. ‘It’s a few hours- the night at most. Besides, there’s some good news.’

‘Yeah?’

He grins wolfishly, his teeth flashing. ‘There’s a whole crate of eggnog and mulled wine in the kitchen.’

Clarke swears, and Bellamy blinks. ‘There is nothing on this earth that I hate more than eggnog.’ She glances at his obnoxious grin and reconsiders. ‘Except maybe you.’

‘God, Princess, who knew?’ He taunts, ‘apparently Scrooge has blonde hair and a portfolio these days.’

Clarke sneers back. ‘Who indeed?’ she snaps, and then feels a little bad. It was going to be a long night.

She sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long few days and this is not the break I had in mind.’

‘Nor me,’ Bellamy agrees drily. ‘I’ll go get us some glasses.’

 

****

 

It’s not because she doesn’t trust Bellamy that she goes to check downstairs herself, but she goes all the same.

It’s an odd thought; he annoys her like no one and nothing else, but there’s something reliable in that, and she _can_ always count on him to deliver. She’s not sure she’d call it trust, but she wouldn’t _not_ either.

Either way, he’s right. The snow’s currently forming a snug little cushion around the door handle, and Clarke can’t see anyone no matter how hard she glares into the blizzard.

She stomps back upstairs in her tights, wanting to avoid the lift in case of a blackout. And since the idea of a blackout in the deserted office block is slightly scarier than she’d like to admit, she takes the stairs back to Bellamy two at a time.

‘Whoa, someone’s eager to get the party started,’ Bellamy holds out a mug filled with mulled wine. ‘Drink up, Princess.’

She takes the cup. ‘Can we nix the Princess thing for the night?’ He raises his dark eyebrows. ‘We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here, but I’m guessing you’d like to survive the experience.’

He laughs, and although it’s supposed to be mocking, she can hear his genuine amusement. ‘Clarke, be realistic. We both know I’d survive the apocalypse longer than you would.’

She snorts. ‘I’ve got mad skills, Blake.’

‘At what?’ He teases, watching her pull herself up onto the counter and swing her legs. ‘Walking in heels and shouting at innocent business partners?’

Clarke rolls her eyes, but for the first time, it’s something close to affectionate. She can’t remember ever talking to Bellamy and not arguing, but it’s kind of nice. ‘You can puppy-dog-eye me all you like, Blake, you’ve still never been innocent in your life.’

He pouts dramatically. ‘My mug was.’

She cocks her head, considering. ‘Your mug was. Your comments about my coffee were decidedly not.’

‘Clarke, your coffee is literally like drinking battery acid.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Clarke smiles, eyes glinting evilly. ‘I just like to mess up yours deliberately.’

‘What?!’ Bellamy protests loudly. ‘Oh, it’s so on. Your mug’s got a big storm coming.’

She lunges for the sink, but he’s already there, his big shoulders blocking her clawing for her mug. It’s pink and Hello Kitty ( _does everyone in the office think she’s crazy cat lady?)_ and she vaguely hates it, but it was a gift from Jasper’s girlfriend Maya in last years’ Secret Santa and she feels like she owes it to Jasper to protect it.

Besides, it’s better than Bellamy’s, which is blank except for the ‘I’m a Twat’ written on the bottom.

Actually, no. It’s not better than that.

By the time she’s come back to herself, Bellamy has his back to the sink, facing out to the doorway and the rest of the office, one mug-laden arm extended to one side and the other pinning her back to the counter out of reach.

She hisses.

He cocks his eyebrow, and his arm back.

She pulls his arm hair below his shirt sleeves, and instantly regrets it.

She launches herself at him but it’s too late; the mug is arching through the air and splintering into tiny shards against the opposite wall. Right below the ‘Don’t Get Your Tinsel in a Tangle’ poster.

Bellamy looks at the pieces solemnly. ‘Hello Kitty is no more.’

She slaps his arm. ‘Fuck you, Blake. You have no right.’

‘Sure,’ Bellamy snorts. ‘Like you did?’

‘It was an accident,’ Clarke asserts, lifting her head regally.

‘Give it up, Princess,’ he scoffs, and sneers when she scowls. ‘You hated that mug anyway.’

‘That’s-’ she falters, ‘that’s not the point and you know it.’

‘Does it matter?’ He sighs, suddenly weary. ‘Jesus, I should be at a party right now, and instead I’m spending my Friday night bickering over Hello Kitty mugs with Clarke Griffin.’

Clarke slumps back and rests her head on the cupboard behind her. ‘ _You_ ’ _ve_ got a party?’ She says, her mockery only half-sharp.

Bellamy gives her a warning look anyway, his already feeble olive branch splintering. ‘You’re the old lady here, Griffin, not me.’

‘Fuck you, Blake,’ she repeats, but mildly this time, the way she’d say it to Raven or Wells or Jasper. They’re both silent for a second and then, tentatively: ‘What party?’

Bellamy looks at her warily, but her sincerity must pass his test. ‘My sister. She’s kind of crazy about Christmas. We, er, didn’t have much of a family tradition thing growing up and she’s pretty set about making our own now.’

Clarke passes him his mulled wine, and clinks hers against his companionably. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ she replies mildly.

He scoffs. ‘You don’t know much about me, Clarke, besides how much you hate my work.’

She lets the barb slide to one side with an effort. He’s trying, and so will she. ‘I don’t hate your work. It’s just better with my input.’

He eyes her. ‘So’s yours with mine.’

They eyeball each other, and there’s a tense moment when she has to bite back her retort, but she does, and from the bob of his Adam’s apple, so does he.

Their silence is _almost_ comfortable, and that’s a first if anything.

‘There must be _something_ more fun to do around here,’ Clarke bursts out, and Bellamy looks at her with surprise and something akin to approval. She jumps away from the counter and looks back at him, all challenge and fire. He’s never seen her when her fire isn’t trying to burn him to ashes and he has to admit, from this angle, it’s both scary and kind of incredible.

‘Bring the wine, Blake,’ she nods at him, her eyes somewhere far away from him. ‘Let’s find the party.’

 

****

 

Once, Kane- their boss- had accused them of being infantile in their arguing (a point he did drop after seeing their results) but, as Bellamy was discovering, they were pretty child-like in their having-fun mode too.

(The wine probably helped).

They start with the obvious stuff- taking funny photos in Kane’s spinning chair, swapping the contents of Jasper and Monty’s desk (sniggering all the while), checking out the respective opposite gender’s toilets (the female ones were ruled definitively better).

(Clarke has to draw the line at cling-filming the toilets.)

They send photos to every person in the office of the coat rack, dressed to kill in Jasper’s goggles, Miller’s beanie, Raven’s bomber jacket. Ironically- considering all the snow outside- it’s the closest they can get to a snowman.

They find Monty’s stash of moonshine- no wonder the Christmas party had been so wild- and treat themselves to a generous swig.

They even try for the roof, generally out of bounds. But the door is as stuck as any other, and they come back downstairs, sliding on the bannisters like children and slopping wine everywhere.

Bellamy can’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun, without even thinking about it.

By their fourth glass of wine (or was it fifth?), Bellamy suggests hide-and-seek, and Clarke is, endearingly sloppily (two words he never thought he’d so much as think around her), enthusiastic.

She clumsily waves him off with one hand, covering her eyes with the other and loudly counting to a hundred. The building is huge and something sticks in his gut when he thinks about wandering too far, so he secretes himself quietly under more coats in a caretaker’s cupboard on the floor below that he knows Clarke is familiar with because it’s where her ex, Lexa, used to work.

It’s dark in the cupboard, and quiet, save for the gentle buzz of the lights and Clarke’s echoing shouts. For some reason, she keeps calling ‘Marco’, like she’s forgotten the game already, and for some reason, it’s hilariously funny.

It takes her longer than he expected to find him and although he can hear her stumbling feet and trace exactly where she is- why she’d think he’d be hiding behind the doors like an amateur, he isn’t sure- but he can hear her voice getting a little more strained the longer is goes on for, so he deliberately knocks over the coatrack he’s leaning against, and shuffles a bit. It’s what he used to do for Octavia when she was younger and it makes him feel nostalgic and affectionate, and not just for Octavia.

He isn’t sure how to handle a Clarke that he likes.

She swings open the cupboard door, triumph sparking in her sky eyes and her hair mussed and golden. He likes seeing normal Clarke, relaxed Clarke, fun Clarke in the place of the uptight firebomb in the opposite office, but he isn’t sure he likes the hairs on the back of his neck, prickling softly when he stares at her wine-red lips.

‘I’m drunk,’ he announces, mostly to reassure himself.

Clarke flops down dramatically beside him and blows her hair out of her face. ‘Me too.’ She stares at him, vaguely accusing but also- if he didn’t know any better- a little unsettled. ‘Took me a while to find you, Bell. That office is _creepy_.’

He bumps her gently. ‘Sorry, Princess,’ he says, and it’s the first time the nickname isn’t sharp with spite (it sticks in his throat for another reason). He sighs loudly, not entirely ready for the heaviness in the tiny room. ‘I _am_ the champion at hide and seek.’

Clarke laughs, but doesn’t answer, apparently content to lean against him in the small space.

After a moment: ‘You’ve never called me Bell before.’

She watches him, considering. Her eyes are the only light in the room, and he wonders how he never noticed that it’s not just fire; she _glows_.

‘You’ve never _been_ Bell before,’ she replies, just as soft, and when he meets her eyes, he knows that she’s right, but that that’s not something either of them are going back to.

‘Besides,’ her lips are canting at the corners again and her tone is lighter, teasing. ‘That hair you’re rocking- it’s a whole new you.’

He lifts a hand self-consciously to his hair, and then back down- _since when did he care?_ \- and shakes it out even wilder. Clarke smiles toothily at him, and it’s honest and open, and probably exactly the smile she’d beamed as a little girl.

‘You look like-’ she puts a finger to her chin, the picture of intense thought. ‘- what’s the Greek one, with the snakes for hair?’

‘Medusa.’ He stares at her incredulously. ‘That’s Medusa. Seriously, tell me you’re kidding. Everyone knows that one.’

Clarke stares at him, innocent and blank.

He sputters. ‘The gorgon! You know, ‘look into her eyes, turn to stone’ Medusa? Perseus killed her, using the reflection in his shield?’

He groans. ‘Clarke, you’re killing me.’

The laughter bursts out of her, golden, and her fingers are in his hair, mussing it wildly and tugging deliciously. He swallows.

‘Bellamy Blake,’ she laughs, ‘I always knew you were a closet history nerd!’

He scowls, but it’s with no heat and she knows it. She laughs again, tipping crazily against him.

‘And you’re literally _in the closet_ , Bell! Do you get it?’ She snorts, and he can’t help but smirk.

‘Princess, you are drunk off your regal little ass.’ She beams at him. ‘And I am _not_ in the closet.’ He winks then regrets it. He definitely doesn’t want to be _that_ guy.

‘I hope not,’ she says lightly, offhand, over her shoulder and should he still be surprised at the spark of pleasure in his gut?

She has his hand, and he’s in the palm of hers and they’re going back upstairs.

For the first time- maybe in his life- he thinks that he’s okay following, if it’s after her.

 

****

 

They’ve switched from wine to the questionable hot chocolate from the coffee machine, and they’re sat on the floor of Bellamy’s office, throwing jelly beans at the window, the door, the computer- but not where they’re trying to.

‘My mouth, Bellamy, my mouth,’ Clarke points melodramatically at the orifice in question.

‘You think I don’t know where it is?’ He’s teasing, but in his head, Bellamy half-finishes the thought: _I’ve been staring all night._

She rolls her eyes, oblivious, and leans back on her hands, her long legs stretched out in front of her. ‘I always wondered what was so fascinating in that drawer, and now I know.’ She nods playfully. ‘Jelly beans.’

Bellamy sighs mournfully. ‘My one vice.’

Clarke chokes a little, joking at first and then seriously. ‘One? Are you kidding, Blake?’

His smile is as angelic and lopsided as the one on top of the tree.

She jabs her thumb towards her own office. ‘I’ve got a list in my office, if you need reminding-’

The next jelly bean hits her square in the forehead, and she chases after it, muttering ‘five second rule’ like he was judging. (He’s too far gone for that).

They try and foot wrestle for a bit- ‘we’ve always been good at fighting _seriously_ , why not this?’- but it turns out they aren’t so good at that, not with Bellamy’s ‘Pull My Cracker’ Christmas socks and her tights sliding all over the place.

‘Poor excuse, Princess,’ Bellamy shakes his head, rummaging in the jelly bean bag again. ‘It’s time to admit that I’m just a bit better than you.’

Clarke scoffs, like she knows he expects, but when he flexes his bicep mockingly and kisses it, she watches the thin white cotton and thinks, fleetingly, of doing the same.

‘There’s no point even arguing with you,’ she says wistfully. ‘Even the doctors say it’s too late.’

‘Ha,’ Bellamy throws another sweet at her, and she catches it neatly in her mouth, pumping her hands in the air in celebration and belting out ‘We Are the Champions’ like there’s no tomorrow.

(She kind of hopes there isn’t).

‘I’ve thought of another game,’ Clarke announces, and Bellamy groans, but they both know he doesn’t mean it. ‘We could play dot-to-dot on your freckles.’

She reaches out to poke his cheek and he pulls away, frowning almost for real this time.

‘I’ve thought of another one,’ he volleys back, ‘we could tie your hair to a chair.’

Clarke falls back, rolling her eyes and conceding.

‘Hey, Blake,’ she says, and there’s something almost awestruck in her soft voice. Bellamy isn’t sure he’s ever heard her speak to him like this. ‘You’re kind of fun.’

Bellamy _definitely_ hasn’t heard her say anything like that before, and he’s not entirely sure he likes the way it curls warmly down to his twitching fingertips. _Just the mulled wine_.

Shaking it off, he launches to his feet and whisks his floor lamp off its feet and into his arms, guitar style. Clarke doesn’t even tell him off; she _giggles_.

 ‘Don’t you know, Princess?’ He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at her and she blushes, but it’s _just the wine_. ‘I’m a rockstar.’

He starts violently strumming his floor lamp, tossing his hair back and forth like a crazed popstar performing for millions, and Clarke’s jumping to her feet, grabbing two of the fancy design pencils that she literally growled at him for breathing near the other day and swatting randomly at his desk, the wall, anything she can get near, with them.

She is, without a doubt, the worst air-drummer Bellamy has ever seen. And entirely the best.

 

****

 

About one in the morning, Clarke announces she’s hungry, and Bellamy instantly feels his stomach cave out. He’s _starving_.

So they venture down to the cafeteria, faintly convincing themselves that the chefs won’t mind on Monday, and set about making pancakes, because it’s really the only thing for a midnight feast, and Clarke’s always wanted someone to make pancakes with in the middle of the night.

She’d always thought it’d be after an exhausting night of toe-curling sex, but she can’t deny that she’s probably enjoyed tonight more than she’d have done a night with Finn- the arsehole- and he’s definitely never have made pancakes with her. Neither of them could cook for toffee.

This is something Bellamy figures out pretty quick- after Clarke tries to crack an egg and ends up with the wrong bit in the bowl- and he shoos her away, tying his apron with a flourish.

Clarke slots herself on the counter nearby where she’s out of pancake-damaging-distance but close enough to watch the process. First the pancakes, and then Bellamy’s arms with the shirt sleeves rolled up, then the pancakes again. _They’re nice arms_ , she allows, as if it’s not a pretty huge understatement, and then drags her laden plate towards her. _But a girl’s got to eat_.

Bellamy switches off the hob and they sit together on the floor, eating companionably in the half light.

When she finishes, embarrassingly soon- she was _hungry_ , damn it- she falls back and rubs her stomach.

‘Those were some good pancakes, Blake,’ she praises, slurring out of contentment and not alcohol now. ‘Got any other hidden talents?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ He says, his eyes dancing, and Clarke thinks _actually, yeah, I think I would_ , but his eyes are warmly dark again, and he’s turned back to the plate, scraping up leftover chocolate chips with his knife.

‘I used to make them a lot for Octavia when she was younger,’ he admits, and Clarke has to lean closer to catch it.

‘How old is she?’ Clarke asks gently, encouraging but tentative.

‘She just turned 21 the other week,’ he laughs, half affectionate and half self-deprecating. ‘It’s- er, not that easy, actually. She’s got this new boyfriend and- I don’t know. Our Mum wasn’t around much when we were kids and I stepped in a lot- she’s been living with me for six years.’

Clarke’s fairly sure that Bellamy’s 24, the same age as her, and when she does the maths in her head, anything she was going to say swells and sticks in her throat.

When he laughs again, she realises that it’s actually just vulnerable. Bellamy Blake is opening up, to her, of all people.

‘She keeps telling me I need to let go, and I mean, I get it, I’m not her parent. But she’s still a kid, you know? The party tonight was our truce- I was going to meet Lincoln- that’s the boyfriend.’ He looks at Clarke for the first time, dark eyes bottomless, but something like humour in their depths. ‘She’s never going to believe this excuse.’

Clarke huffs out a laugh, ‘Bell, I barely believe this excuse.’ She pauses. ‘She loves you, Blake; you’re family. You argue and you fight, but you’ve always been there for each other and you always will. She knows that, and she probably just wants you to know that too.’

He smiles, and jostles her shoulder.

‘Since we’re sharing here,’ Clarke takes a deep breath, hating the catch in her voice. ‘I hate Christmas. Honestly, I know the elves have already basically vomited it up all over the office but I swear every time I look at the tinsel everywhere, _I_ want to vomit.’

Bellamy smiles and he’s giving her a way out, letting her know in his Bellamy-way (because she knows him enough now, in one night, to know that he _has_ a Bellamy-way) that it’s okay not to want to talk too. ‘I think that poster makes all of us want to vomit, Princess, except maybe Jasper and Monty.’

(It hits her, right in the chest, that they’ve argued for years, worked together forever, and in one night of armistice, they know exactly what to say to each other. It’s comfortable, Clarke realises. Bellamy feels _natural_ , like they should’ve always been this way.)

(Maybe they should.)

‘My Mum and I, we don’t really see eye-to-eye on a lot of stuff,’ Clarke says vaguely. ‘My Dad died a few years ago- right around Christmas actually- and, I don’t know’- she shrugs sadly- ‘it’s like we’ve just forgotten how to talk to each other. And then I dropped out of med school and that was the last straw.’ She looks up at Bellamy, and he’s still, watching her. ‘Christmas is for families, right? This year, I got a dress in the post and an invite to some party she’s throwing- tonight, actually.’

Bellamy’s eyes are suddenly too all-seeing, and she squirms. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a family. My best friend, Wells, we generally spend Christmas together, it’s just, you know.’

‘Sometimes you’ve just got to Bah-humbug it,’ Bellamy supplies and she knows that he gets it.

She drops her head onto his shoulder, and he touches his to hers, and the quiet is peaceful. She can see the snow swirling softly out the window, and she thinks, in a voice in her head that she hasn’t heard in a long time, that this, sat on the cold kitchen floor with Bellamy Blake in the middle of the night, feels more like Christmas than anything else ever has.

But the floor _is_ cold, and she’s not sure she’s ready for her long-term rival to be her friend, never mind her home, so she climbs slowly to her feet and pulls him with her.

‘It’s freezing down here,’ she announces, and Bellamy looks right through her. ‘There must be somewhere comfortable to lie in this place.’

 

****

 

It turns out, there’s not.

Bellamy trails after her, tired but not sleepy, as she marches up and down the stairs, watching the ladders in her tights slowly climb higher and higher up her legs.

He curls his fingers into his fists when they do that fizzing thing again.

They finally settle in their own office because it’s familiar, and despite what Clarke said before about Christmas (he’d feel bad about the Princess thing if he didn’t know it meant something altogether different now), he thinks they both like the lopsided Christmas tree and Monty’s paperchains. It feels like their friends are there.

‘Do you have any cards?’ Clarke says, suddenly, and he shakes his head.

She rolls her eyes again, but it’s indulgent now, warm. ‘I’ll go check my phone. Maybe there’ll be an app we can download or something.’

While she’s gone, Bellamy roots around in their storage cupboard, and uses a slightly musty tablecloth as a floor for all the coats he piles up for them to sit on. It’s comfier than he expects, but cold.

(Without Clarke, anyway.)  

While she’s gone, Clarke quickly glances through her text messages, quickly firing off texts to let Wells and Raven, her roommate, know that she’s safe. Within seconds, Raven replies.

Raven: _Fucking finally._

Raven: _Make something other than office rivalries out of all that sexual tension, Griffin._

Raven: _I’ll expect (hastily-covered) nudity when I pick you up tomorrow_.

Clarke blushes, realises no one can see her, and shoves the messages and Raven’s suggestions away. She’s not sure she likes him _that_ much.

(Okay, she is.)

‘Cosy,’ Clarke remarks when she walks back to Bellamy and sees him curled up like a cat in his nest. Then she remembers what Raven said, and blushes everywhere. ‘Do you realise it’s way past three?’

Bellamy groans and shifts to make room for her. ‘I’m too old for this.’

‘Yeah,’ Clarke murmurs, ’24 feels a long way from 14, doesn’t it?’

(She definitely does _not_ think that this a good thing, in any context related to the sprawl of Bellamy’s long, lean body.)

‘I got the phone,’ she announces instead, and holds it between them like a buffer. ‘Cards?’

Bellamy nods, his eyes sleepy but firmly fixed on her. She yanks off her tights- finally- and tucks her legs underneath one of Monty’s coats, and Bellamy’s eyes turn wicked, incongruous against his dusted freckles.

‘Strip poker?’ he suggests, and for a second, Clarke lets it hang there, distracted by the sweet angle of his cheekbone over his half-smile, and his fall-about perfect hair.

_It’s really not fair_ , she thinks, and then the thought of strip poker hits her, and her stomach both bottoms out and climbs into her throat all at once.

She sputters, and the lights go out.

‘Shit,’ she hears Bellamy whisper, and she shuffles closer to his voice instinctively. ‘I was wondering when that’d happen. It’s about to get really cold up in here, Princess.’

She jumps when she feels something brush her neck, and then relaxes when she feels him drape a coat gently around her shoulders, guiding her arms in like a child. It’s already warm, and she wonders if he deliberately picked one he’d been laying on for that exact reason.

(He did.)

‘I’m not sure I like the office in the dark,’ Clarke says, keeping her voice as even as possible, and Bellamy’s fingers curl against her neck, his thumb stroking her pulse lightly.

_Let him think that’s why it’s pounding_ , she thinks urgently.

‘Can’t say I’m a fan myself, Princess,’ Bellamy whispers, and his voice licks warmth through her again.

_‘_ Hey, Clarke,’ his voice is even quieter, barely there. ‘I’m glad you were stuck with me tonight.’

She sucks in a breath on a ‘me too,’ and cants forward just a little, searching for the glint of his infinite eyes and he’s right _there_ , his stubble scraping deliciously over her soft skin.

She takes one more breath- almost a moan- and his blows, hot, across her face and then he’s really there, his lips on hers and their everything pressed together.

_Finally_ , Clarke thinks on a sigh, and it’s not even a strange thought because it feels like she’s lived a lifetime with Bellamy in this one night. His hand slips further down inside her coat and she suddenly doesn’t need it; he’s fire and she’s burning up. His teeth scrape her bottom lip and tug gently, and her moan is all their years of arguments in one stream, running out of them in the best way. He tastes like chocolate chips and mulled wine, and Clarke doesn’t care about how much of a Christmas cliché they are right now, wanting him closer and closer and always _closer_.

Her lips are swollen extensions of his, and all she is is tight with want and full of Bellamy, just not quite enough, and suddenly, suddenly, she really bloody loves Christmas.

‘Your hair is made of the silkiest snakes I know, Medusa’ Clarke teases against his mouth, her fingers tangling endlessly in it.

‘Shut _up_ , Griffin,’ Bellamy groans, but he’s smiling and so is she and it makes it hard to kiss him again but she does, and she does, and she does.

 

****

 

Raven and Miller find them the next morning, curled up in coats and each other and smiling softer and harder than either of them have ever seen, even in their sleep.

 

****

 

On Christmas day, Jasper’s phone bleeps, and so does Monty’s and Miller’s and Raven’s.

‘Disgusting,’ Raven says, but she’s smiling.

The photo could be on any Christmas card, billboard, advert across the city. A skinny, tanned arm (they suspect Octavia) holds mistletoe high in the air, and just below it, all shining eyes and sickening happiness, Bellamy’s pulling a face, Clarke’s lips pressed to his cheek.

Jasper sighs, and clutches his phone to his chest.

‘It’s a Christmas miracle,’ he breathes, and ducks at the (plastic) mug thrown at his head.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr :) (here-isthedeepestsecret and instars-acrossthesky)  
> xox


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